Taking Bluebird's Wings
by my-voice-rising
Summary: The sand smelled of pearls and the ocean glittered like a thief had dropped his bag of diamonds. Everyone was smiling into the canopy overhead that blazed blue. Pearl Harbor was one shining oasis, and Danny Walker’s best friend was dead. Mild AU, DannyOC
1. the nameless pilot

the nameless pilot

* * *

The sand smelled of pearls and the ocean glittered like a thief had dropped his bag of diamonds. Everyone was smiling into the canopy overhead that blazed blue like a lucky girl's eye. A ukulele's strum was on the breeze like a hummingbird just at your ear. The sand was soft under bare feet. Glasses of brandy sweated in the July sun. Soldiers ready to relax or serve their country, whichever came first, drove slowly past giggling girls. Pearl Harbor was one shining oasis, and Danny Walker's best friend was dead.

Evelyn hadn't even spoken. She didn't cry. In fact, Danny didn't even have to tell her. Not about the dogfight; not about the dark ocean that had sprayed into the air like a geyser and sucked Rafe under. Evelyn's big green-blue eyes had just stared up at Danny like she already knew. She knew why he was there in a stiff uniform, why he hadn't smiled, why Rafe hadn't answered her letters.

"He always answered my letters," was all she had managed. It was the first thing either of them had dared to say. The sun was setting as Danny took her slender frame into his arms. The cotton of her blouse slid under his hands, palms sweaty and uneasy, his stomach churning with bad news.

They had both lost someone.

They were both lost.

Evelyn had muttered something vaguely, something about needing to hang clothes to dry. Then she turned with her eyes like blank slates and went inside, drifting away like a ghost. Danny waited for the screen door to swing shut, thin and paper-like in the salty breeze. She didn't come back out with any laundry.

The sun was nearly down, pulled into the seas with the skeleton of Rafe's plane. Danny turned and faced the quiet road. There was an army jeep waiting for him, whirring quietly. Another soldier sat in the driver's seat, silent and irritated to be out on a Friday night delivering death notices.

Danny couldn't think of anything worse, right then, than sitting next to that blond man again. He had a Yankee accent and seemed to always have candy in his mouth that clicked against his hard teeth. He checked the rearview mirror too often, like somebody was threatening him. No, Danny would not sit with that soldier again. Instead he just started walking. He didn't know where he would end up, but wherever it was would be bright and sunny in the morning. Right now it was purple-gray with a disappearing sun.

The man only watched him leave. He didn't call out, didn't ask him where he was going; nothing. Then he shifted into gear and rolled away, looking inconvenienced for having to drive out to Evelyn's in the first place.

These were the men fighting for this country; dying. These men were nothing like Rafe, yet were still carelessly grouped alongside his name on lists of casualties.

Rafe is dead.

The word was hollow. It was overused, meaningless and incapable of the right description. Dead.

A car zoomed past, and Danny's eyes lifted tiredly to the road. Evelyn's small beach house was far behind now, and he had no idea how long he'd been walking. The car kicked dust and sand into the air, and it settled onto his pristine uniform. He was the disheveled, lonely soldier that was supposed to be poring over a tonic and gin, if all clichés were had. Instead he was trekking down a lonely road. It would do.

The sun had set and thunder was rumbling gently in the distance. Across the water lightning illuminated the slowly building clouds. Danny stopped and watched.

He and Rafe used to play outside in storms, when they were young. They would hide in the cornfield at Danny's farm, dripping with mud and rain, playing soldiers. Cowboys and Indians. Bank robbers. They were kings and knights and renegades for hours on end, and nobody could tell them otherwise. Then they'd dry off in the barn and hang their legs from the hayloft window, kicking their feet like boys were meant to.

The dusky air was suddenly cracked open by the horn of an oncoming car. Danny's pupils dilated in the angry headlights, appearing as fast as the lightning. Aimlessly, he had walked into the other side of the road, into oncoming traffic. Danny barely reacted, and the car swerved just in time. All that he did was close his eyes and wait, but for what, he didn't know. There was the loud screeching of brakes on sand. It seemed to go on for hours. Then there was silence.

Danny hadn't budged. His hands were trembling, and he pulled off his uniform cap to rake one through his dark hair.

_The hell is wrong with me?_

He turned his eyes to the cream colored convertible, stopped only feet away from a telephone pole. The headlights were still on, two long beams in the swirling dust and sand. A few more feet and somebody could have been in the hospital or worse.

"What were you thinking, standing in the road like that?" The driver was a young woman, Danny realized. She sounded terrified and definitely English. "Are you _drunk?"_

"No," he mumbled. He doubted that she even heard him over the engine that rumbled like a frightened cat.

His eyes had adjusted from the blinding headlights and he could see her, slouching in the driver's seat. A hand was to her chest as thought to keep her heart from falling out. The car was still running. A blue handkerchief was tied around her coppery head.

After several moments of silence, she turned and studied him. "Is there something… wrong with you?" Her accent was a stark contrast with his Tennessee drawl. When Danny only looked at her blankly she said, "I mean, you aren't like, mental are you?"

"I'm walking," Danny said, and started off again. Down the long, straight road.

She studied his uniform and his retreating back. "To where, the hanger?"

He didn't respond.

"You're not walking all the way over there," she said with a firm shake of her head. When Danny looked at her skeptically she gestured offshore and said matter-of-factly, "It's about to storm."

He turned and saw the angry clouds nearing. The woman leaned over her seat and pushed open the passenger door. Then she sat back and watched him expectantly.

Danny opened his mouth several times to decline her, but couldn't bring himself to. Mostly he didn't feel like arguing. He didn't feel much like anything, in fact. Silently he trekked around the car and slouched into the leather seat, closing the door heavily. For a moment the girl studied him, though he only continued to stare ahead, unresponsive.

At last she shifted into gear and pulled slowly from the sandy grass. The ride was silent, except for when she asked several questions—the kind that screams an uncomfortable politeness. Danny didn't care much for manners then, and answered her questions "So you're a pilot?" and "How long?" with the shortest answers.

Far behind them the storm clouds had reached land and the rain fell in a blur, from their distance only a dark smudge between sky and ground.

At last she turned to him. "What's the matter, you look like you just lost your best friend."

He looked at her stonily and after a moment she gasped.

"Oh God, I'm so sorry, I didn't…" she stopped pressed her lips together. "That was stupid. I'm sorry."

Silence interrupted them for the rest of the ride. The girl drove too fast and took turns too sharply, apologizing and muttering about American roads being backwards. Danny was silent and stared out over the ocean. The storm was growing closer.

A glance from the corner of her eyes told her that he was just staring out the window, without really seeing. She felt awful about what she had said. But how was she supposed to know? Again her cobalt eyes went to him.

He was so quiet. Like death.

They at last reached the hanger where Pearl Harbor's boys laughed and smoked, and some of them actually worked. She pulled the car to a stop and shifted uncomfortably in her seat. It was painfully silent. He began to reach for the door handle.

"You haven't told me your name," she ventured.

He didn't respond, maybe she didn't expect him to. Either way, she tipped her head to the side as if brushing off his silence. "I'm Gemma Carhart."

"Thanks for the ride," he muttered as if she had never spoken, and opened the door.

She watched as he climbed out of the car miserably. When he disappeared she sighed and flexed her grip on the steering wheel. Over her dashboard, the nameless pilot headed into a small building to the side of a hangar. A man in uniform called to him but he didn't respond. She waited until he disappeared through the door.

_What dark eyes._

* * *

It took a few weeks for Danny to smile again. Most of the time he just worked hard, to keep his mind off of things. He wasn't much of a drinker, so bars were useless. Instead he poured all his waking thoughts into mechanics and wrenches and barrel rolls. Maybe part of him wanted to discover what Rafe had done wrong—Rafe, one of the best pilots he knew. 

Danny didn't speak much for a while, and when he did it was to Evelyn. He saw her one morning in a grocery store, pushing an empty cart down an isle. She wasn't even bothering to look at the shelves; just staring ahead, going through routine. Danny had timidly nodded his head, and they shared a solemn greeting. That pitiful conversation that mourners strain to have, when they meet by chance. All the pleasantries ("How have you been?" and "How's the hospital?") without the smiles.

He spent a lot of time at a restaurant downtown, just sitting. Sometimes Evelyn would join him, because they could remember things together. Things about Rafe. Danny told stories of their childhood so Evelyn could learn to laugh again. She always bought him coffee and never noticed that he didn't drink it, and it was that thought that he kept reminding himself of.

_If she had any interest in you, she'd notice something like that._

At first it seemed that their constant meetings were entirely by accident. But then it came to the point that Danny spent more time getting ready before heading to the smoky restaurant. It came to a point where he watched out the windows and his heart skipped a beat every time he saw a girl with chestnut curls on the sidewalk. A point where Evelyn started to put her makeup on again.

It came to a point where Danny began to feel guilty when he remembered Rafe.

"I miss him," Evelyn said one night, surprising him. The glass mouth of her coffee cup was perched on her red lips.

Danny's eyes shot up from the tablecloth: printed flowers that had paled in the sun through the window. Evelyn just stared over her mug at nothing. She was either starting to cry or the steam was misting her rainforest eyes.

Danny swallowed. He was no good with women and had accepted that he never would be. "I know," he murmured. "I miss him too."

Evelyn didn't respond and Danny knew that he hadn't said the right thing. He had said what someone who didn't really know Rafe would have said. Danny cleared his throat.

"He'd be proud of you," he said slowly. Evelyn's eyes lifted to him and he could see the glassy tears. Danny lowered his gaze; he rarely could keep eye contact with women. "I mean you're getting along well. I think that's what he would have wanted. For you to smile more."

Her gaze went out the window and Danny thought she might burst into tears. He opened his mouth several times to fix the words he had somehow managed to mess up, but no sound came out.

Evelyn turned to him, her eyes smiling once more. "Thank you."

He nodded, feeling a lump welling up inside his throat. Her eyes went to the table.

"You haven't touched your coffee," she noted.

Danny grinned boyishly, tilting his chair back on two legs. "Can't stand it."

Evelyn laughed. Really laughed. Danny felt a weight falling from his shoulders.

"Well, at least I didn't buy it this time," she said, looking at the waitress who had passed earlier and given Danny a free cup and a grin. "I guess that's the price you pay for being handsome."

Danny felt his ears redden and the smile spread further across his face.


	2. wingmen

wingmen

* * *

The field was the color of autumn and tall enough to shelter the two young boys. The sky turned a sleepy yellow and the air smelled like leaves and wheat. Dirty twelve-year-old hands shielded eyes from the slowly dropping sun. A lazy moth drifted by, mute in the field's comfortable silence. A breeze lifted into the air, carrying the scent of the apple orchard spread out just beside the field. Danny felt his brown eyes closing with sleep. 

"I'm going to do that some day," said Rafe suddenly. Danny turned to look at him.

Rafe's jaw was strong already, his voice deepening. Danny still blushed at girls and his voice faltered with puberty. He followed Rafe's hazel eyes up into the sky, where an irrigation plane seemed weightless—paper-thin as it drifted high above. The cool air and the endless gap between sky and earth muffled the plane's rough sound.

"To fly?" Danny murmured.

Rafe nodded, determined. His eyes never left that plane. "And I know your dad doesn't think you can do it. He wants you to stay and work on the farm like him."

Danny looked away from the plane, saddened by the reminder. But Rafe turned his head defiantly, dusty hair catching the light. "Well he's gonna feel real stupid when you're standing in uniform at your door. After we're famous for shooting down enemy planes."

Danny grinned and looked back to the irrigation plane high above, as it turned and flew southward. Rafe made it all seem so easy. It was in those few seconds that Danny knew his dad would quit drinking and that Danny would be a hero soldier.

Rafe looked at him seriously. A ladybug landed on his shirt but he didn't notice. His eyes were on Danny's, firm and strong. "You're my wingman, okay?" he said.

"Okay."

The field swayed in the breeze.

* * *

Danny was slowly remembering how to go about life again. It had been almost two months since Rafe's plane had gone down. Danny could dream now, without his friend's cold face staring up through the waters where he had crashed. 

Evelyn was smiling more—her mouth was one great big shimmer now, like a river catching the sun. Danny still hadn't grown used to the stomach knots those smiles brought. Her friends looked at him differently now, when he came to visit or to pick her up for the restaurant. They had knowing eyes and sly grins that made him uneasy.

The September sun was falling as Danny drove through downtown Pearl Harbor. It was almost seven o'clock and couples weaved through the crowds, hand in hand. Girls' sundresses were the colors of tulips and young men were bees hovering dangerously close.

Red and Betty were in the open back seat, but they had been busy with each other for the past fifteen minutes. Danny silently watched the buildings they passed, shielded by palm trees. The air smelled like hibiscus. He drifted slowly on a rumbling engine past a fortuneteller's; a place to buy organic foods; a candle shop; a small theater where bees and tulips went to ignore the screen…

He felt something dart around in his chest, when he saw the restaurant where he and Evelyn often met. Red and Betty were still occupied, and so he dared a long glance through the windows, grip tightening on the wheel. There were waitresses in green; an older man with a stern army haircut was animatedly telling a joke; steam plumed from the kitchen window; a little Hawaiian girl was sucking on a lemon, her feet kicking lazily…

The restaurant door opened, flashing a mirror of the setting sun across his eyes. When Danny's vision adjusted he saw Gemma Carhart walking briskly through the door. Danny almost didn't recognize her—it had been nearly two months—but the same blue scarf was wrapped around her auburn head.

Danny slammed the brakes so hard that Betty snapped, "Hey!"

Gemma looked up, alarmed, and Danny noticed the handkerchief she held under her nose. She was crying. Her glassy red eyes fell on Danny, and after a moment's pause he leaned over to open the passenger door. Behind him a car horn beeped and the driver called out angrily.

Gemma flicked her eyes to the other car worriedly, but Danny said to her, "Your turn."

She seemed to falter and he waited, the other driver shouting several curse words. When her eyes landed on Danny's she quickly climbed in and shut the door. Red and Betty were watching now, Red more awkward at seeing a girl cry and Betty almost interested. The silence stretched and Danny felt a smile tugging at his mouth, with the strangeness of it all.

Red awkwardly held out a cigarette and a matchbook to Gemma. "Sss-smm-oke?"

Gemma shook her head, not turning to look. "No, I don't." Then she paused and, before he retracted his freckled hand, snatched its contents. "Give me that," she grumbled, placing the cigarette between her lips with trembling fingers.

Betty studied her for a moment before seeming to grow bored, and went back to Red. Danny cast Gemma a sidelong look and said quietly, "I thought you just said that you don't smoke."

"I don't," she nearly coughed. "It just seemed like the right thing to do. That's how it always goes in films, you know? The heroine is upset or in deep thought and she needs a cigarette."

Danny hid a grin behind his fist. "Okay."

They drove on in silence until Gemma flicked the half-finished cigarette onto the pavement. From the back seat, Red managed, "I th-think we're g-getting out here."

Knowing all too well what they meant, Danny sighed and stopped the car. Betty said hastily, "Thanks Danny," before grabbing Red and pulling him toward an empty alley. They pulled away and Danny watched Betty's kicked-off shoe leap from the alleyway and land on the sidewalk.

Gemma seemed to have not even noticed that the back seat had left. Danny cast her another sidelong glance and asked, "Where should I take you?"

She seemed to snap out of a trance and jumped. "Oh! The flats near the old market." He noticed that her eyes were dry now; the hint of tears she wore had dissipated.

Danny shifted uncomfortably. "So—"

"A woman came into the doctor's office today," Gemma suddenly interrupted. Danny grew rigid, unwilling to have this conversation now that they were alone.

Gemma didn't seem to notice. "She was just stung by a bee and everyone working was just so relaxed today, it was one of the nurses' birthdays… We haven't had anything more than jellyfish stings and drunken bar fights all summer. So they gave the patient over to me. I gave her iodine for the sting and…" Gemma trailed off and suddenly cried out, "She didn't tell me she was severely allergic to iodine! I'm barely out of basic training—I hardly know what I'm doing! They just shipped us right over from England. I didn't know what to do today when she told me she was allergic, and the doctor wasn't there, and now she's really sick…"

Any hope that the tears were done with was over, as she reached again for her kerchief. Danny stared out awkwardly to the road, now driving through the crowds of turning heads with a hysterically sobbing girl.

"I'm sorry," Gemma said between heavy sobs. "I don't even know you, but believe me, I'm not usually like this…"

Danny couldn't think of anything to say, so he muttered something that sounded like, "That's all right."

At last they pulled off the main road and onto a long, empty stretch of rural area. Gemma was still bawling, and one thing that Danny could not stand was seeing a girl cry. With one last glance at her, he pulled over and stopped the car. He would just sit there, feeling so damn awkward, and let her cry her eyes out.

And that was all he knew how to do, any way.

Gemma was nearly twisting her hair into knots. "She might die, and it would be my fault—everyone's so bloody disappointed in me and she might die!"

"She's not going to die," Danny tried to be comforting while unable to meet her eyes. It was a stupid thing to say; he knew less about medical treatment than anything.

Ignoring him she said feverishly, "I mean, what if something really horrible happens here, and I don't know what to do? I won't know how to help—"

Danny had turned to her now and managed, "That's not going to happen. Nothing bad is going to happen." He held her gaze for as long as physically possible for Danny Walker.

He was relieved to look away, when she released a long sigh and let her eyes shut. "How can you be so sure?" she asked weakly.

He looked back out onto the setting sun, through the gaps between the beach houses. It was dripping gold into the ocean. "Because it's Pearl Harbor. It's paradise."

Gemma turned to the ocean as well and they didn't say anything else. Watching the light flicker off the water made him feel tired and comfortable. After the sun had gone down Danny started the car and drove her the rest of the way home.

* * *

When the screen door swung shut behind her, Gemma released a long sigh and sank onto her haunches. Her throat was sore from sobbing like a damned baby. She had truly lost it in front of a near-complete stranger; she still didn't even know his name. As if her time with making American friends was running smoothly anyway, she thought abysmally. 

The sound of a tinkling bell suddenly came from the kitchen, and a snowy white cat appeared, winding through the unpacked boxes and piles of laundry on the floor. The cat's big green eyes stared up at Gemma as she pawed her arm, impatient to sit in her lap.

"My Pearl," Gemma cooed as the cat settled down on her legs, kneading her claws into her skirt. Wincing, Gemma scratched the small creature behind the ears and she purred like an engine. "I hope your day has gone better than mine." The cat looked up and she adapted the baby voice again, "But how could it not be wonderful, hmm, when you're living in a place named just for you?"

The cat blinked slowly, as if agreeing that Pearl Harbor was truly named after a feline. With an effort Gemma stood to her feet and kicked off her uncomfortable red heels, holding Pearl in one arm. The window blinds in the small apartment were closed, and slants of gold light were painted on each of the dim green walls. As she passed a hopeless-looking fern, the majority of its foliage brown and dry on the floor, Gemma muttered to herself that she really _did_ need to water it.

The kitchen was small, the only light coming through the back door. The paint on the cabinets was crackling and the black-and-white tile floor was cool under her bare feet. A small radio was the only thing occupying the counter other than a sea of dirty dishes, and Gemma reached to switch it on, balancing a squirming Pearl in her other arm. A woman's strong voice came through the tinny reception, telling a story through low jazz.

_Some other spring, I'll try to love  
Now I still cling to faded blossoms  
Fresh from worn, left crushed and torn  
Like the love affair I mourn_

At last Pearl managed to leap from Gemma's arms, landing with a soft thump and mewing pathetically for her dinner.

"I know, I know," Gemma murmured as the small animal wound between her feet. "Hold on, my darling." When she set down an opened can of cat food, Pearl went straight to work. Humming along with the radio, though she didn't know the tune, Gemma opened the refrigerator she knew to be empty save for two eggs, a wilted head of lettuce and a beer.

_An American_ _beer, _she thought bitterly as she pulled out the imposter beverage. With a loud sigh she collapsed onto a chair at the small, round table, where the other seat was always empty.

"Well, we can't get pissed tonight, Pearl. Not with just one beer," she muttered. The last of her money had been spent on a bowl of soup at the restaurant earlier. Pearl's only response, though, was the sound of the cat food scraping against the floor.

Gemma shamelessly cracked the bottle cap off using the table's edge, just like her mother had told her never to do—and how her father had secretly taught her when she was fifteen. At the thought of parents, her eyes strayed to the table where her mother's most recent letter lay.

Patricia Carhart disliked Americans with unprovoked fervor. She hated England's support of the United States and had basically refused for Gemma to leave home, even though she was twenty-two. The past few letters had been nothing but ordering Gemma to return to England as soon as possible.

_Maybe I should,_ she thought, recalling the incident in the doctor's office. But instead she tossed the letter over her shoulder and took a long swig of beer. She would rather die than give her mother the satisfaction of knowing she was right.


End file.
